


The Midnight Hour

by leobrat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Making Out, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 06:10:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12382491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leobrat/pseuds/leobrat
Summary: Sansa is a lady, and ladies don’t ask these questions.





	The Midnight Hour

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended to be part of a longer work but as I was working on it, this beat is wrong for where it would go in that story (which I am still working on and will hopefully be able to post sometime in the next month). I still like this though, so here it is as a one-shot, or ‘deleted scene’.
> 
> The premise of the story is that instead of Sansa going South with Ned and Arya, Joffrey is sent to Winterfell to foster, with Sandor as his bodyguard. 
> 
> Many thanks to abvj for helpful suggestions and especially lifeofsnark who was at my side every step of the way.

The torch lights from the Great Keep flicker over the courtyard and he can see puffs of smoke curling up lazily, the hot water running underground below huffing along. The voices and music from inside sounds very far away and Sandor can only hear Sansa’s low, slightly off-key hum. Her head is leaning back against the stone wall and her eyes are nearly closed, lips slightly turned up. She is perched neatly on a low stone bench, but Sandor chose to sit on the ground at her feet rather than right beside her. Were she to turn her head and look at him, they would still very nearly be eye eye to eye. Right now, though, he is glad she is looking away. The wine has hit him hard tonight, mixed with the mulled spirits, and just looking at her, he feels need coursing through him, sweet and sharp, and he can’t stop looking at her. 

“We should sheepshift his bed.” Her voice cuts in suddenly, turning quickly in his direction, smile widening ever so slightly. It takes him a moment to reply.

“Hm? Who?”

“Joffrey.” Sandor feels sobriety brush against him. Not him again. Leave them in peace. Just for tonight. Just for a little while. “You cut a hole in his mattress and stuff a sheep dung inside and then sew it up and make the bed again. His room will stink but he won't know where it's coming from.” She grins and Sandor’s heart stops for a second. “Arya did it to me when we were younger.”

It's so outrageously innocent and devious all at the same time, and Sandor’s mind reluctantly remembers the bruised and bloody whore limping from the prince’s room, Joffrey’s self-satisfied smirk. _No. Away with you._

He forces himself back to Sansa, which is no great effort at all. “Why sheep _shift_?”

At this, her cheeks pinken in the torchlight and she lowers her voice conspiratorially. “That's the vulgar word for dung.” He can't help it. He bursts out laughing, from his gut. He can't remember ever laughing like this. “Well, you asked.” She looks so proud of herself, thinking she's shocked him. She reaches back for his wineskin and after the slightest hesitation, he relents it to her, trying not to thrill at her soft hand brushing against his fingers.

She _has_ shocked him. She is the loveliest, most precious thing to have ever existed and she has changed him. She has chosen him, for all good that choice will do either of them. Might mean death for him (probably) and misery for her for the rest of her life. But she has chosen him, inspired him. He thinks he would tear the Red Keep down, stone by stone, with his bare hands to keep her safe.

He is a fool. He will burn for her, the sweetest fire there is.

She takes a long, unladylike sip and hands the skin back to him. He tries not to be too eager to press it to his own mouth, but forces his movement to appear lazy as he pathetically searches for the warmth her lips left. He finds a flicker of it, savors it. She looks at him again.

“What does _fuck_ mean?”

Blood and heat roar through him, in a rage, and Sandor chokes on the wine halfway down his throat. Her eyes are innocent, but her pretty mouth gives her away, turning up for a second before darting her small pink tongue out to lick her lips. _What are you playing at, girl?_ “Where did you hear that word?”

“It doesn't matter. Theon, I think.” Of course. “Do you know?”

Sandor needs to be very careful. “What do you think it means?” 

“I think,” she pauses, drawing out the word and Sandor finds himself leaning forward without meaning to. “I think it’s something you do. That _people_ do.”

“You didn’t learn this from a song.” Sandor’s voice is a rasp, barely above a whisper and he is clenching his fingers into fists to keep himself from putting his hands on her. She is so close he can smell the wine on her breath, mingled with sweet ginger and _Sansa_. 

“I’ve learned a lot lately.” She is not smiling any more, not teasing him. She is looking him square in the eye. He suddenly feels small. He feels he is no match for her, were she to come for him. And yet, he feels no fear.

He is going to ask her what she’s learned, is going to push this little game further, as far as it will go. It’s _fun_. She’s _flirting_ with him. He doesn’t want it to stop, but then…

Then she has tipped herself forward and landed ungracefully in his lap, a warm weight and tangle of long limbs and flowing hair and she is laughing and then...and then…

Her mouth is on his. First on the corner of his burnt side, searching, and he tries to twist her away from it but she holds him still, kisses him right there, makes a point of it before letting him twist her around again. She is artless and unrehearsed and has no idea what she’s doing, small touches all along his mouth and even his bearded chin, the ravage of his scarred side, but Sandor is powerless against her. He wants to bury his hands in her hair, wants to pull her close to him, crush her against him, bear her _under_ him, and…

He pulls back, sucking in deep gulps of breath and looking at her. Her chin has little red prick marks from his beard and her eyes...he could die from the way she is looking at him. 

“ _Sandor…_ ” 

His name on her lips. He is dead. All of the heavens and all seven hells. He feels no fear.

His mouth crashes into hers with a ferocity that surprises even him and gets a delighted little yelp out of her. She is smiling against him, and he revels in her smile, in her gentle joy, in the softness of her cheek under his calloused thumb. But he is still him and his kisses are not soft lovely things. In them are the thousands of lonely nights he has lived through feeling the craving for a tender woman’s touch. And the hundreds since he has known her where she has become the only woman who will ever exist for him. 

His tongue sweeps in to taste her and she moans into his mouth, pulse pounding in his ears. Her hands reach up to touch his face, both sides, threading through his ragged hair and legs twisting and turning, trying to get closer. When her tongue finally flicks shyly against his, mimicking his movement, to his surprise, she gives a tentative bite to his bottom lip. 

_Little wolf._

She has ruined him for all time and if all he gets with her is this past year, these next few months…

How will he ever give her up?

How will he bring her back to King’s Landing, hand her over to Joffrey, stand next to them on their wedding night while Joffrey takes her maidenhead. Stand outside their door for every night after that. Listen as he beats her. Rapes her. He won’t be Sandor Clegane any more, he will be The Hound once again. Powerless and inhuman.

How will he go back to that? How will he let that happen to her?

He imagines himself like the wildlings he has heard about, stealing whichever woman pleases them and taking her into his home, and it is a marriage done. No one questions it. 

It sounds like a dream to Sandor. 

Sansa has pulled back, her eyes cloudy, confused, and there is more, so much more humming between them. “Did I guess?”

“Did you guess what?” He has not loosened his hold on her, it feels too good.

“What _fu_...what it means?” She has lost some of her earlier braveness. What she had been searching for when she followed him out here, stole his wineskin, he doesn’t know if she found it.

Fuck. She had asked him, and of course she had known it all along. _Playing with fire, little wolf._

He is as hard as he’s ever been and her lips are full and still damp and it would be so, so easy, _so good_ to lay her down on the ground, on his cloak. Hells, it would be so easy to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to her room, to her soft featherbed and shut the world away from him. No one would go looking for them until the morning and he would have so much time to explore her, to touch her, to let her play. He would show her what it meant.

But that way leads damnation, for her more than anyone, and he cannot. “Aye, girl. You guessed.”

She pulls away from him, and he can hear the drums from inside again. The feast is still going strong. They have not been away for so long, although it feels like forever. She stands and turns a giddy circle in time to the music and darts off, having stolen her kisses, having had adventures enough for one young maiden. 

And Sandor sits in the snow and watches her go.

*

Sansa can still feel the drums beating, coursing through her, though the feast has long since ended and there is not a sound in the castle. She was giddy, reckless when she got back to her chambers and wrestled herself out of her fine gown without calling for a maid and crawled under the furs naked. She had never done so before, and the soft sleekness felt so strange against her skin, heavy and warm but cool when she shifted, almost as if teasing her, keeping her from sleep. She cannot sleep. The giddiness, the recklessness she felt before ( _had she really stolen his wineskin and made him chase her for it_ ) was gone and she felt just restless now.

She felt empty.

Her mother had warned her before the festivities began that taking more than a cup or two of wine would only lead to her feeling sick, and while she feels a peculiar spinning sensation, it’s gentle enough, and Sansa knows it has less to do with blackberry spirits than it does Sandor.

Sansa had known what she was asking him. Well...she knew she wasn’t supposed to be asking him. But in the weeks before the wedding, since they almost lost Lady and _Rickon_ and Shaggydog, since she had seen the hard, shrieking terror in his eyes and knew what he had forced himself to do for her...And then he went back to his silent, stony self, the guard who kept himself away from people. She had seen him. She would not let him hide.

And where had it gotten her?

More confused than ever, more certain of what Sandor wanted, more certain that she wanted the same...even though she was still not sure what end lay that way. When she flowered, she was given the most basic information from her mother and septa, all a noble girl needed to know, and she was still many months away from her wedding bed, from Joffrey…

She remembers that night in the cave. There had been no fire, and it was too wet inside for one to be built anyway, but he was so warm, gathered around her, while her teeth chattered and bones nearly rattled from the cold. She was the Northerner, but he was the one unbothered by cold, and she even managed to sleep in the warmth of his arms. He was so...so _large_ , and even that seemed a paltry word to describe him. 

She knows only the most basic information about what happens when a man and woman (a _husband_ and _wife_ ) lie together and when she thinks of Sandor (she shouldn’t, she must stop thinking of him) she wonders at how it could ever happen (it _couldn’t_ ). How he would _fit_. On top of her and inside…

She’d felt him, under her rump outside in the courtyard. Her cloak and her gown and underskirts and his cloak and jerkin and breeches between them, but she’d felt him all the same. Male anatomy was a mystery to her and she did not know what it was supposed to look like, to feel like, but...One hand trailed down her belly and between her thighs, skimming over the coarse hair there and to her surprise, finding moisture, hot and slick. Curiously she let one finger circle herself, lips parted and hearing her own gasp when she dipped that finger inside. Tight. Warm. Her own fingers are slender.

How would a man like Sandor *fit*...

She should draw her hand away, should turn her thoughts away, but...but this feels good, and she hadn’t expected that. She had never known herself, touched herself, outside of washing and she wonders at how little she knows of her own body. Her other hand trails down to join its sister in exploration and bumps over her nipple, tight and stiff and its sends a jolt, directly through her to a point deep inside and Sansa moves her hands over herself again, wandering, playing.

Something is happening. Something like what she felt when he’d opened his mouth against hers and she tasted him, but this is different. She can feel all of her body connecting, thrumming as if the drums really were still playing. Her body has changed, she is a woman grown now, and it seems she has only recently begun to realize this. Palms come up over her breasts, round and soft and they easily fill out her hands. 

But his hands are so much larger.Gods, he’s so very much…

His hands were rough when they’d brushed over her cheek, rough and callouse. But so, so gentle. 

Back down between her thighs and she doesn’t hesitate this time, doesn’t brush the thought aside, plunges a finger inside (hotter and wetter than she’d been) and groans. The angle isn’t quite right though, there’s something more, something building and she doesn’t know how to reach for it.

What if…

What if he were here?

What would he do? 

She has seen the horses in the springtime, the stallions rearing up on hind legs, and Sansa flips over onto her stomach, raising up on her knees and leaning forward. Would he take her this way? She is braced on her cheek and one hand, the other still searching for that something that she is missing, that is right there, but _gods_ , this is good too. How would she look to him like this? Bottom raised, splayed open, her own slim fingers playing over her, making her blood sing. 

Not like a lady. Not at all.

For some reason, that thought makes her smile as she drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly, the beginning of this conversation is dialogue directly lifted from the show. I love that scene and wanted to play with it.


End file.
